


The Luxon Academy

by orphan_account



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse, Caleb Typical Levels of Trauma, Caleb still has crippling guilt because otherwise you wouldn't recognize him, Drug Abuse, Dubious Consent/Consent Issues (past), F/F, Fjord is Number Six because I say so, Implied Prostitution (past), M/M, Molly’s got some things going on and a history that's not so fun, Multi, Note that stuff has been changed around to allow for shippy stuff without it being a bit...weird, PTSD- Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, The loose Umbrella Academy AU no one asked for, Time Shenanigans, Trent Ikithon is still in this just you wait, Violence, Witness me taking the Umbrella Academy lore and ruining it, autistic caleb, consensual drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 11:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's been five years since Caleb disappeared and nearly four years since Molly left the manor with nothing but the clothes on his back. And with the death of one Yussa Errenis, former Headmaster of the now disbanded Luxon Academy, Molly is back at the gates of the manor once more.It was all supposed to just be a simple funeral service-- held in the rain to hide the lack of tears-- the usual buisness. Nothing more, nothing less. But a certain someone just had to show back up and tell them the apocalypse is going to happen innine fucking days.And Molly’s pretty sure it's not the drugs that are making him see things-- he for one couldn't ever make something like this up, even if he tried.





	The Luxon Academy

**Author's Note:**

> So, I /swear/ I'm still gonna write my other stuff. But guess who's slamming into another fandom 👉👉 The comics for umbrella academy are good,  but the show just, umph boy, did it give me ideas,,, Here's the disaster of a crossover none of y'all asked for. With some widomauk cause like. Idk I can--¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

The gates look the same as they did years ago and he stares at them, wondering why they don't just turn to teeth and snap him between their deadly jaws. And what a _hell_ of a way to go-- impaled by the same things he slammed behind him the last time he walked out of this god forsaken place. 

There's one person he knows will never walk out of those gates ever again now. He saw the news on the small portable TV in the ambulance he was wrongfully declared dead in.

The only reason he knows he crashed for any amount of time is because Fjord hasn't left him alone since it happened. The half-orc an ever persistent presence in his peripheral. Since Molly stumbled his way out the back doors of the vehicle with a thumbs up to the wide-eyed paramedic-- swiping his coat off where it had been throw to the floor, and ignoring the fact they cut his shirt off of him-- the half-orc has hovered closer than usual.

Molly fiddles with the locket resting over his sternum, eyes the front door and looks up at the swollen clouds hanging overhead. A part of him wonders if the others would have ever even told him the news. He has no cellphone, no landline, no way to be contacted besides the nearly infuriating way Beau seems to always find him and drag him to rehab when she gets the whim to _‘help him out.’_

The vigilante has always been oddly… _caring_ in her own way. Even for washed up things like him.

Before he realizes it, he's turned to pacing outside the gates, cracking his knuckles and pretending like there isn't a cold sweat slipping its way down his back. He rubs at his chest, grimacing at the raw patch of skin left from the crash cart paddle. If the paramedic had just waited he would have woken up on his own anyways--

_’Do you know--’_

_’Have you seen my--’_

_’Mom? Where are--’_

_‘Lucian.’_

_‘Lucian.’_

**_‘Lucian.’_ **

Molly shakes his head, slamming his palms over his ears and grimacing. The wavering forms flitting across his vision like static and bad reception. Gods, he needs-- he _needs_ \-- He fumbles in his pockets, fingers crossed that the paramedic didn't swipe them. A triumphant laugh leaves him when he pulls free the colorful little collection. These things weren't cheap-- and he hasn't exactly been that high on funds considering his latest involuntary stay in rehab, thanks to one particular vigilante individual.

Sometimes, he wishes Beau would mind her own business-- Even if she finds him passed out in an alley, face down in a puddle of his own vomit, with the hummingbird pulse of a souped up toddler-- it's his choice, not hers. 

He supposes being sober might be his decision to make too...

But he tossed that sobriety coin they handed him at the door a few miles back and _hours_ before he ended up getting hit by that car, and woke up  in the back of an ambulance. Asshole driver should've been watching the road anyways-- 

“Really, Molly?” 

Molly ignores the question, rips the small plastic bag open, and fishes for one of the small colorful pills inside. 

“Is this really the best idea after-- after all of that?” 

Molly turns a withering glare to the half-orc. “Shut up.” 

The woman walking along the sidewalk behind him makes a questioning sound at his hissed words. Molly looks back over his shoulder to see her glancing between him and what he knows she probably sees as empty air. He waves her off with a purposefully manic grin, tail lashing, and the human scuttles off with a squeak. Wide-eyed and on her merry way like she should be-- far away from them. Molly scowls at her retreating back.  

People are too god damn nosy in this part of the city. He'll be glad when _he's_ the one who's far away from here agai--

“I'm just sayin’, maybe it'd be best to go in sober. It'll all go over better if you're level-headed...and I'd like to be able to see them too--” 

Molly tunes Fjord out, palming the pill and glaring up at the half-orc who's got his hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched. “And _why_ should I take life advice from the dead guy again?” 

Fjord scowls, narrowing his eyes and crossing his arms.

“Fine, fine--”Molly puts his hands up, grinning and rocking back on his heels. “ _‘Low blow’_ \-- I'm _sorry_.” He drags out the word with a flourishing flick of his tail and a signature grin.  “Happy?” 

“Thrilled,” the half-orc drawls, “Now, maybe don't take--”

Molly pops the pill into his mouth with a smirk. “Too late.” 

Fjord sighs and Molly purses his lips. Maneuvering the tiny, chalky tablet beneath his tongue, shivering at the anticipation of a numbing warmth creeping down to his fingertips. 

It should be enough to keep it all away until he's out of here. 

“See you later, big guy,” Molly waves over his shoulder, pushing the wrought iron front gate wide with all the pomp of a ringmaster's grand entrance.  

Fjord reaches for him, hand passing through harmlessly, as it always does. “Molly, _please_ promise me you won't be a complete assho--” 

“I said toodle-loo, buckaroo,” Molly grits out with a mocking salute, before shaking his head and tapping his temple with a pointed look at the half-orc. 

Fjord deadpans back.

Molly smacks his lips a few times when the half-orc doesn't disappear. Runs his tongue along his teeth and contemplates the usual chalky aftertaste left in his mouth.  “You know, these things usually work faster...”

The gate swings shut with a squealing creak and clang behind him. Maybe they're just taking a bit longer than usual-- considering he got a bit… _jarred_ by a few tons of moving metal and tires only an hour or so ago. 

They'll work eventually. 

The click of his heels on the stone steps is far too loud as he ascends them up to the base of the sentinel oak doors. The large brass eye symbol nailed into the door glares down at him and he grimaces back at it. He grabs the door handle, tests it with an experimental jiggle, and finds it all too unfortunately unlocked. 

Molly sighs, contemplates turning back for a moment-- and thinks better of it. There's a few prospects inside that might come in handy. _Money prospects_. Inching the knob to the left, he pauses, staring at his reflection in the obnoxiously polished brass. And gods, for once he has to agree with some of the ruder people he encountered on his way here. He looks a bit shit. 

Nearly every part of him doesn't want to continue turning the handle. The last time he went through these doors he was leaving them-- and he sure as fuck didn't look back. 

Why the hell is he here? It's not like he needs to be-- it's not like they care-- 

“Maybe you're becoming intolerant to them?” Fjord continues and Molly rolls his eyes (half annoyed at Fjord himself, and more annoyed that the shit isn't working like it should). He holds a hand up, mocking the half-orc's incessant nagging. “You take them so damn much, it's a wonder it didn't happen sooner--” 

“Shut up, shut up-- _fuck._ ” Molly waves him off, finally shouldering the oak doors open, fumbling in his pockets for the plastic baggie containing his purchased array of less than prescribed relief, “That guy better not have sold me some fucking blanks. I'll rip his di--” 

“Molly?”

He freezes just inside the foyer, the sound of the large oak doors shutting behind him nearly thunderous. And she's standing there, at the foot of the stairs-- as stalwart and unwavering as the day he left. There's a pinched scrunch to her eyes he doesn't remember, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness of the empty entry hall as she approaches. The chandelier hanging above the center of the parlor is the only other sound as it creaks on its tether.

And last time he saw Yasha her hair was deathly white.

Now, it's nearly black, faded to a grey and then a cloudy mist at the tips. And her eyes-- one of them is purple, an amethyst where a different stone used to sit-- 

“Oh, Yasha-- Hi! I--” There's arms around him before he can finish his sentence. His feet leaving the ground, arms pinned to his sides, as the brutish woman hoists him into the air. “Oof. Watch the coat please, dear. It's delicate.” 

She releases him after a rib crushing pause and he draws in a lungful of lost air with a breathy, delighted laugh. 

And finally, he doesn't hear Fjord calling him any colorful array of names or inundating him with badly timed advice. The heady, buzzing skitter beneath his tongue and down his spine speaks for itself. They weren't fakes after all then. Which is quite the relief considering what he had to do to lower the damn price in the first plac--

“What are you wearing?” Yasha asks after a moment, eyeing his ensemble. 

And he's pretty sure she means more than just his dream coat with all of its obnoxious embroideries. That the heeled boots, the pants that are more than legally tight, with their nearly obscene cutouts up the sides, and the glaring lack of a shirt, might have her raising her brow like that. 

“I told you the coat was delicate.” Molly shrugs alongside his non-answer, wandering over to one of the many wall length mirrors in the entry hall. Ignoring his reflection in lieu of the shiny, golden paperweight settled on the shelf framing it. 

“It looks like… like a circus threw up on you.” Yasha observes and he huffs out a laugh. 

Molly glances over his shoulder, notices Yasha looking off towards the sitting room and library, and quickly pockets the golden bauble. “Funny you should mention that actually--” 

“Who invited Molly?” 

Molly spins around, hands clasped behind his back, head cocked and brow raised at Beau who's wandered into the hall. She's wearing that same outfit she always wears. He can't help but wonder if she even takes it off when she showers-- or when she fu-- 

“Uh...   _rude_ ,” Molly says, realizing he's let the question linger in silence for too long. 

It's hard to measure time when it all starts to slip like liquid and molasses between his fingers anyways. The sudden urge to laugh at the way Beau's nose wrinkles is nearly overwhelming and he bites down on the bubbling, giggle until he tastes iron on his tongue. 

“Don't you have some drug dealer to suck off somewhere, Molly?” 

“Beau,” Yasha reprimands, placing a sizable mit on the vigilante’s shoulder. 

Beau shrugs her off, pulling a throwing knife from its sheath across her chest and gesturing at him with it. “Come on, we all know he's just gonna steal whatever he can scrounge up from dear, old ‘ _dad’s_ ’ office and sell it off for his next pack of snuff.” 

Molly mock gasps, recoiling, swaying on his feet and delicately placing a hand over his bare sternum. “Frankly, I'm offended and hurt that you would think of me in such a ghastly way--” 

“You already took something didn't you?” 

“Why, Beauregard Lionett, I would _never_ dream of stealing from dear, deceased ‘ _dad_ ’ like that.” 

She deadpans, eyes narrowing at him, surveying their way down the length of him. He barely has the chance to flinch before there's the sound of tearing fabric, and the previously pocketed mantle ornament comes tumbling out. The clatter of the thrown knife hitting the tile behind him echoes in the ensuing silence, and he stares straight ahead, unblinking.

When no one deigns to speak Molly shoves his hands in his pockets, whistling and turning to look up at the moulding of the ceiling. Yasha clears her throat, moving to pick up the small golden bauble, and walks it back to where it belongs. He can practically   _feel_ her quiet disappointment the whole way.

Well...shit.

“Yasha, I--I can explain--”

“Molly,” Beau sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, “Just leave if you're not gonna take this seriously.” 

“I _am_.” He bites out, irritability sparking as quickly as the striking flint of euphoria swimming in his veins. “I'm taking it as seriously as any of you, fuckers. I showed up didn't I?” He gestures to the manor, tail lashing behind him. “Why can't I just, you know, get a forward on the inheritance?”

“It doesn't work like that,” Yasha says. 

“Yeah, paperwork, wills, lawyers, yadda-yadda, bureaucratic bullshit.” Molly rolls his eyes. “Personally, I'd rather not spend another second trapped in these halls.” 

“Yeah well, neither do we.” Beau spits, tossing another blade in her hands and side eyeing him.

Yasha says nothing, crossing her arms and leaning against the column behind her.

Molly clears his throat, rocking back on his heels in the silence. He knew it might be bad-- might be awkward-- when he decided to return after seeing the news about Yussa's death. But this is nearly _painful_. There aren't enough drugs in the world to numb this… 

But he needs something to take back. Something worth some value. Gustav and Desmond sat him down weeks ago and explained he couldn't work for their show anymore if he showed up high again-- but he can't work if he's not. There's too many voices, too many ghosts waiting in his peripherals and whispering in his ears-- He _needs_ it. 

If he doesn't take them, there's also a chance he might see _him_ , and he doesn't want that either. He can handle Fjord lingering around after what happened to him, but he can't handle-- he could never-- not Ca-- 

“Where's Marion?” He asks, more as a distraction than an actual need to know where the mechanical nanny is.

Making his way into the small library, pseudo-meeting room-- and occasional photo room-- before either can answer him. He got his mark in this room, in that corner beside the column-- biting his lip until it bled and then some, trying not to claw his skin off where an eye was burnt into his forearm. Rubbing at where it lies beneath the multi-colored sleeves of his cobbled together coat he wanders over to the bar, rummaging through the bottles on the counter with a cursory eye. 

“She's upstairs with Jester,” Yasha says finally, and he glances over his shoulder to see she's followed him in. Beau hot on her heels and glaring at him from around the woman. 

“Jessie's here?” He turns towards her with an eager grin.

“Yeah, dipshit, we all got the same memo to be here, why would she not show u--” 

“Sh, sh, sh,” He hushes, cutting Beau off with a wave of his hand, hoisting up a half empty bottle of some mystery, unlabeled bottle of spirits. “Shut the fuck up for a sec.” Molly holds up a finger, pointing at her and whispering, “Do you hear that?” 

“What?” The vigilante grits out. 

“It's the ‘I didn't fucking ask you’ ghost and its saying.” He cups a hand over his ear, leaning closer. “Hm, what's that? Oh, right, right…it's saying‘ _shut the fuck up’._ ”

Beau sneers, flicking him off and settling back into the couch. “Fuck off.” 

“Gladly.”

Molly takes a long drink from the bottle-- doesn't stop to think how it might play with the shit already in his system-- and swipes the back of his hand over his mouth when he's finished. Sends Beau a wink and a grin when he catches her staring at him like she can't quite put together how he's this much of a mess. And it's funny-- cause he can't quite either. 

Maybe it has something to do with the portrait above the lit fireplace. 

Five years is a long time to just vanish into thin air with no clues after all. And Molly tried to summon him, tried to talk to him for nights, weeks, _months_ \-- until finally he gave up. It wasn't worth the constant brunt of wayward spirits he had to sift through, all in search of one that he hoped he would never find amongst those bloodied and shambling bodies. 

And there's one other person he knows probably loved him more than Molly ever could. Practically a mother to him--

“Is, uh… is Nott gonna stop by?” Molly asks, looking over at Yasha.. 

“Yes. She called earlier to let us know she was coming.”

Molly shuffles in place, tail flicking and held low. “How is she?” 

Yasha looks down, crossed arms pulling tighter. “She's… she's good.” 

Beau sneers from the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. 

And _that's_ getting old real fast. 

He can deal with her judgement outside these walls, with her reprimands and back-handed comments when she stumbles upon him in any number of compromising positions with the very same people she busts. But in these walls, with that portrait glaring at him from the corner of his eye-- the distinct buzz of disappointment slipping down his throat with another drag from the liquid venom clutched in his fist-- he doesn't want an _ounce_ of it. 

“ _What_?” He finally snaps when he gets tired of her glaring. 

“So, you finally ask how she's doing after--” Beau checks her watch, “Four fucking years.” 

“I wasn't exactly around to ask.”

“I'm well aware.” 

Molly takes a step forward, trying to focus on her face and not the lights bursting into vibrancy behind her. “Hey, don't fucking come at me about up and leaving this place, Miss Vigilante.” 

“At least I went and did something with my powers,” Beau fires back, sitting up, shifting the knife in her palm--and he knows what it looks like when she's poised to throw. “What the fuck do you do all day anyways, huh? Fuck hookers and blow coke?” She smirks and he hates how much smug knowing there is in it. “Or is it the other way around?” 

Yasha approaches, arms akimbo and voice pleading. “Beau, please--” 

“No, no, I'm curious, Molly.” Beau crosses her arms, tilting her head. “ _Why_ did you come here?” 

_Money._ He needs money-- he _always_ needs money. And his usual avenues for getting it have waned thin these past few months. But maybe it's a bit of sentiment too… maybe he wanted to see if that portrait still held up to the image of auburn hair and blue eyes in his head. 

Maybe he misses all of them too ...

Molly laughs, a breathless chuckle that matches the clouds in his skull and the all too airy grin on his lips. “You guys are… you're family.” 

And ain't that the truth. Sort of… They're all from so many different walks of life he can't name them. But Yussa collected them all from their fucked up little lives and gave them a purpose in these halls-- in the illustrious and prestigious Luxon Academy. And while he considered most of them fellow students first, family second-- there were some that were even _more._

“Were we family when you abandoned us? When you decided we were too good for you? When you gallivanted off with your little circus pals?” Beau gestures back towards the front door with an angry sweep of her arm. “Nott didn't need another one of us to up and disappear on her-- and that's _exactly_ what you did.”

“Beau.” Yasha takes a step forward. “Stop.” 

The vigilante huffs, turning back to twirling a knife between her fingers. “Don't come crawling back here pretending like you fucking care.” She points the dagger at him, lip lifting in a sneer. “You've _never_ cared, Molly.”

Molly flinches back, shaking his head. 

_’He's gone and that's it. There's nothing we can do. We'll hold a funeral service next week.’_

_‘He's not dead-- he's not-- I would--I would know. I'd see him… he'd come back to me. He would…’_

Molly looks up at that painted portrait of a young, ginger-haired man, prim and proper--and very much alive-- just above the mantle. Where it's hung for _five terribly long years_. And he's been grateful for every moment he didn't have to look that empty-eyed visage in the face and wonder where the man went. Why he left them… why he left _him_ \--

_‘He just vanished… he just left and he didn't even say goodbye, Yasha.’_

Molly shakes his head again, tangling his fingers in his hair and pulling-- the throbbing in his skull marching in tandem with the flighty beat beneath his sternum. It's too hot in this room-- too _loud_ \-- and no one's talking-- not even the phantoms he already chased away. The crackle of fire within the confines of a stoney maw pops like gunfire in his ears and he swallows against the constriction in his throat. 

__

_A locket is all that's left of him-- and that painting. The damn portrait that glares mockingly down at him from above the fireplace. He hates it. There's footsteps; someone standing in the entry to the reading room._

_‘What do you want, Beau?’_

_’You'd be able to see him if he was dead, right?’_

_He runs a thumb over the engraved metallic surface of the heart-shaped necklace. ‘Yes… but he's _not_ dead. So, he's not here.’ _

_‘Or maybe, he just doesn't want to see you ever again.’_

“--you know, if you really cared about him-- about any of us, you would have stayed--” 

Molly sees red. 

“What the _fuck_ do you know?” He stomps towards Beau, head fogged and murky with the illicit fuel in his veins and a bitterness still coating his tongue. “You don't know _shit_ \--” 

Yasha yanks him back by the scruff of his coat and he claws at her hand. Spitting and hissing at the wide-eyed Beauregard who's eyeing him like he's grown two heads. 

“Guys?” 

The knife poised in Beau's fingers arcs through the air on the tail end of the trembling question from the doorway. The blade tears its way through another section of Molly’s coat with a resounding rip that punctuates the awkward silence. 

“Jessie, uh--” Beau fumbles, scrambling to her feet and Molly is nearly vindicated by the way she's turned to stumbling and bumbling over her own words.

“Why are you guys fighting?” The usually exuberant tiefling eyes them with the widest and wateriest purples he's ever seen. 

He can't help but wonder if that's what got her all those roles in the movies he's seen far too many times now. Too afraid to visit her-- ask how she was doing face to face, but he needed to see the little sapphire again somehow-- get whatever scraps of unending optimism he could. Even if it meant shelling out the last of his funds to catch some terrible romantic plotline in a dinged up cinema.

And gods, this isn't how he imagined his reunion with any of them would be… And they all look so-- so _different_. Jester looks _tired_ , eyes puffy like she's been crying-- and he has a feeling it isn't just from the loss of Yussa. (None of them were that overly attached to the old bastard anyways.)

They've all aged life times in just four years-- and he's sure he doesn't look too hot either. 

“We weren't fighting, dear.” Molly pokes at the new tear with a frown. “Just a… disagreement.” 

He holds the edge of the maroon coat up to the light of the fire, peers through the new hole. He just got done making this thing with Desmond's help not even a month ago and he's already getting it all torn to shit. The flicker of orange through the torn fabric moves and Molly narrows his eyes at it. Wavering like a pair of dancers, flames twining in the frame of frayed edges; two bodies stepping to the call of a song he can't hear-- _’Might I have this dance, Mister Mollymauk?’_. 

Molly shakes his head and sways on his feet, tongue heavy and numb, vision fogged at the edges. He's pretty sure he's hitting some kind of threshold. Maybe he shouldn't have mixed it with alcohol this time--

“Are you…” Jester is suddenly in front of him, brushing aside his hands and tilting his head by his chin. Her fingers brands of fire against his skin that feels like it's boiling off and freezing in tandem. “Are you high?” 

Molly can't help the coughing laugh that leaves him and he shoves the tiefling's hand-- too warm, too much, too tender; _‘are you okay, Mollymauk?’_. Rubbing at his eyes and groaning. It's really god damn bright in here--

“ _Jesus,_ Molly.” 

He whirls on the disappointed sigh from Beau with a grimace, swaying on his feet when the room continues spinning without him.

“Oh, fuck off.” He stumbles towards the exit of the reading room-- the portrait keeps glaring at him-- and if there's one ghost he can't chase away it's that one. “Like any of you care…”   

A large, pale hand stops him, steadying him just at the edge of freedom. He looks up at Yasha and her new mismatched eyes-- at that hair that isn't hers-- and the question sits heavily on the end of his tongue. _How did it happen?’_

“How long?” Yasha asks. 

“Wha’?” 

Yasha sighs. “How long til’ it wears off?” 

“I don't---” Molly licks his lips, tilts his head back to stare up at the ceiling instead of all the little imperfections in her face. “I don't know. It depends...maybe an hour...” 

“I need you to talk to him.” 

“To who?” _Gods, please don't say his name. Don't say Ca--_.

“To Yussa.” 

Molly sighs. “...why?” 

Yasha frowns, glancing towards beau and Jester speaking animatedly on the couch. The woman leans in close and all he can see is that purple eye-- _shadowed, bruised, the color of decay and rot_ \-- and nothing like it's supposed to be. 

“I think he was murdered.”

**Author's Note:**

> Basic equivalents- 
> 
> Number 1- Yasha 
> 
> Number 2- Beau 
> 
> Number 3- Jester
> 
> Number 4- Molly 
> 
> Number 5- Caleb 😏
> 
> Number 6- Fjord
> 
> Number 7- Nott
> 
> Reginald Hargreeves- Yussa (because I can)
> 
> Marion- Mom (nanny robot) (cause I couldn't think of anyone else 😂) 
> 
>  
> 
> All picked up at different ages and brought into the Luxon Academy (almost named it Beacon but kept thinking about RWBY the whole time). So they already had families and names, etc and ... things may have happened to said families or not.  Depends on the individual. Think more like very X-Men kind of school. Not so much the tight adopted family thing it is in the actual Umbrella Academy verse. 
> 
>  
> 
> Yussa didn't go around buying infants in this basically. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
